Having, apparently, got it out of his system, Amaratunga drops back against the sofa and wipes tears from his eyes. Also not a cliché, it seems.

Then he turns and props his chin on the heel of his hand.

"Either that was the most perfect line, or something else is afoot here," he says and gives her a wide smile.

Blimey. The Internet is right. His smile can ruin men for all of us. Permanently.

"Allow me to explain," he says. "My family have known Daniel since childhood. We grew up in the same county. And once I moved to London, a few years after him, we reconnected. It turned out that we shared certain... interests. We are, as the saying goes, part of the same scene."

It sounds like he's implying that he's much younger than Oates; but in all honesty, she wouldn't be able to tell. Oates has the older Millennial eternal youth, Amaratunga is half-Asian. Anyone's guess.

"And then you appeared." Amaratunga makes a light, arcing gesture with his hand. "And in the Top you looked like a normal human being. And then you come to the exhibition, and suddenly you're... one of us. Neither bodes well."

Holy Molly. What does this even mean?!

"One of you, meaning-" Emilia gives him a bewildered look. "A celebrity?"

"Yes, but please don't take it the wrong way." He chuckles. "What I mean is that you're dressed to show off your best assets. Polished, intentional. Provocative. And I do mean it as a compliment. You're stunning."

"Daniel took me to see Marigold Vane," Emilia blurts out.

"Ah, yes, I recognise the Maestra's stamp. Just enough flair to dazzle, but never crossing the line." Indeed, this twinkle in his chartreuse gaze should come with a health warning, just as his fans rave online. "Asking his personal Pygmalion for a massive favour at such short notice? He must truly care for you. It was her salon's chair that plunged you into a panic attack, wasn't it?"

All Emilia can do is nod.

"Marigold is a lot. But she did an excellent job. You're still you, I did have a good look in the club." He grins like a cat that hasn't yet got the cream but whose plate is dangerously close to its toothy muzzle. "Just turned up to 11."

Emilia wants to tell him that bare shoulders, her bust on full display, and a skirt that could house a wedding aren't exactly the Emilia she aspires to be; but she's too overwhelmed.

"Has Max tried to gently grill you already? A tad of good old-fashioned prodding and propositioning to see if you waver? Knowing Daniel's personal history, you can see how his mates could be worried," Amaratunga continues.

The issue is that she knows nothing about said personal history of one Daniel Oates.

On that point, is that what Amaratunga is doing - checking if she'd fall under his spell?

And is she?

"By the way, Max's inhumanly monogamous. Hopelessly in love with his Celestine, having given up any other earthly delights," Amaratunga murmurs and raises one eyebrow.

"Thank you for the information," Emilia bites back.

Her sarcasm is back. She must be recovering from the initial impact of his proximity.

"My pleasure," he purrs and stretches his arm on the curve of the sofa back between them.

He settles his chin on it and then raises his gaze at her.

Blimey... That scrambles the mind like five Bloody Maries.

Except.

Emilia exhales and says, "Before I met Daniel, I've only written men like you and him, you know? You're right, the way I was in the Top, that is the real me. I'm awfully average. So, it's endlessly flattering that you're treating me like a potential danger to your friend. But you really don't have to," she says, smiling softly at him. "I wouldn't be able to snooker Daniel into anything. I'm not good enough to be a gold-digger. Neither am I experienced enough to exercise any sort of control over him."

He chortles and sits up.

"Alright, I give up," he announces, throwing hands up dramatically. "I'm almost wounded! Nothing works on you! You are neither flustered nor defensive!"

"Oh I'm absolutely flustered!" she exclaims - and he bursts into the second round of his charming guffaws.

He then shakes his finger at her. "No need to patronise me, Ms. Arundel!"

"Oh, stop sulking," Emilia quips back. "You know that no one can resist you. In my case, I'd be too intimidated by your glamour and glow to react, even if I weren't properly into Daniel."

No snappy reply follows; he's now studying her.

"He's a jammy bloke, you know?" he draws out pensively after a couple of seconds. "I can only hope that one day-" He stops himself mid-sentence. "I think I'm properly into you now, Ms. Arundel."

Emilia gives him an exaggerated squinted glance. "Is this your new method of testing me?"

He barks a deep laugh. "Perhaps." He tilts his head inquisitively and clicks his tongue. "Well, alright then. I yield. Let's talk about my second question."

"What second question?" Emilia gives him the line.

After all, he's quickly becoming less and less 'ruinously handsome and intoxicatingly sensual' as per his fanbase; and now he's just rather pleasant company. And then she immediately remembers that she's starving.

You know what would be most lovely right now? Her Da's scouse. The dish, obviously.

When she was small and he was still functional - before the booze started getting the better of him more often than not - he had shown her how to do it properly. Brown the meat. Peel the tatties. Don't skimp on the onions. Taste. Adjust. As many times as needed. And then let it do its thing. She could just close her eyes and see him standing in their tiny kitchen, arms crossed, nodding at her progress, offering an occasional dry comment. The real thing. Done right. Cheap cuts, potatoes doing most of the work. Mum was gone by then, and he thought little Milly should be able to 'fend for herself if anything went wrong.' And a lot did, to think of it. So, the skill came in quite handy.

She cooked it for Paul - once. They'd agreed he'd come over; she'd specifically confirmed how much time he thought he'd have 'after.' She'd planned it perfectly; and once they were done - well, he was done - she was prepared to serve him. She remembers that she'd even bought some niceties to make her table look more romantic: candles, or napkins, or some other nonsense. And then he muttered something about working overtime - and he was gone. She ate her portion, and then his, and went to bed.

It's funny to think of it now, but how did she not suss it out then? Talk about turning a blind eye.

How would it play out with Oates? Oh what a thought!

The idea is, of course, mad. Feeding her 'scran' to the Daniel Oates, 'the restaurateur extraordinaire whose empire of sleek eateries has become the favourite haunt of fashion's glitterati and who made being seen at his tables as mandatory as a designer handbag.'

And yes, of course she's read up on him. With an anachronistic smug thought that he might be 'the celeb‑acclaimed culinary visionary whose £500 menu turns his seats into the front‑row of the London fashion week, and whose name has become shorthand for stylish, hard‑to‑book dining' - but she saw him sleepily brushing his teeth in her minuscule bathroom, in his pants only. After he'd murmured into her ear, 'You're driving me bloody mad,' and then the shag had been so rad that he asked to stay at her place and cosily snuggled her under her duvet. Yeah, that Daniel Oates.

Would he eat it - or at least try it? It has already been established that he can be terribly direct and is almost always honest, as well as picky and obsessive when it comes to anything food-related.

Even if he does try it, will he spare her feelings if she makes some disastrous cooking faux-pas?

And on top of it - ha, 'top!' - how would something like that fit into their newly established sub-domme relationship? Is feeding your sub a good practice? Is a sub allowed to refuse or express their dissatisfaction with the quality of sustenance?

Her mind makes a familiar beeline into the field of dog training, and she imagines offering a spoonful of her Da's stew to Oates to reward good behaviour. Her straddling his lap. With almost no clothes on either of them. His hands tied behind his back.

Alright, enough. Her brain must be short-circuiting from hunger.

Back to reality, Emilia!

By the way, she's somehow managed to forget that she's sitting next to 'UK's Sexiest Rising Star' while daydreaming of nosh and hench restaurant owners. Preferably consumed simultaneously.

"After I met you, I chatted with John about you," Amaratunga says. "Your publisher?"

"Ah yes, you're cousins," Emilia confirms absent-mindedly, while wistfully reminiscing about the sticky rice cakes that she shared with Oates that night. The perfect dessert after the 'dessert.'

"I want to play your Marquess on the telly."